


You’re My Opheliac

by pixielove



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction
Genre: Angst, Dark Larry, Dirty Talk, Dom Harry, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rimming, Secret Relationship, larry oneshot, larry smut, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:09:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1900137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixielove/pseuds/pixielove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only by the moonlight do Harry and Louis dare remove their carefully constructed, Management approved masks. The moon knows all their secrets, and she shares in their madness, their opheliac love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You’re My Opheliac

Her hand attempts to grip his, hanging there beside hers, lifeless and unfeeling. Two dozen cameras are flashing at him, calling out his name, her name, looking for reactions, but Louis can’t even muster the energy to fake a smile. He’s not supposed to care, he knows this. Louis’ not supposed to let himself fall victim by the madness that he finds himself tangled in whenever he allows himself close proximity to that otherworldly boy. And yet, there’s no escape. No escape, because it’s always been Haz and Lou and he supposes it always will be. Together through thick and thin, they’re best friends, and there’s no way they can ever truly run from one another – no, how can they? ‘His hiding place is mine. We go to the same place. Wherever I run to, I run to him,’ a voice in Louis’ battered mind reminds him, and then the voice whispers, ‘you make me strong.’ And it just makes sense. Of course, there is no way he can ever run away from Harry Styles, for he is the one who makes him strong. It’s Harry that he runs to.

And it’s all adding up and the realisation hits Louis like a bullet through the brain. His legs have turned to jelly. The lights are flashing and blinding him at every angle. Louis think he might throw up if he doesn’t get away fast.  
“LOUIS! ELEANOR! LOUIS! OVER HERE! THIS WAY!” the voices are shouting and Eleanor is talking about something trivial and irrelevant and Louis doesn’t say a word, just lets her talk, her words so meaningless that she may as well be talking Chinese.

Because I hate you when you touch  
her like that. I hate you when you hold her hand. I hate when you kiss her. I hate when she’s the reason for your smile. I want to be the one who makes you laugh. I want to be the one, I-  
And Louis will never admit it.  
The one who needs to hear it will never know.

That’s the way it has to stay.

***

It’s a thing, this madness. If their love had a mental illness, Louis would give it bipolar, because everything is so fucking up and down. It’s a rollercoaster. It’s chaos. He never knows if he’s coming or going in Harry’s world. He never knows if he’s up or down. What hurts the most is Louis never knows where he stands. Do the secret kisses in the dark mean anything? When the sun rises, everything is forgotten. They are only lovers by the moonlight, and it’s true – the moon knows all the secrets of forbidden love, she’s heard all of Romeo and Juliet’s pleas, she’s witnessed true love and all of its agony and pain and beauty. All of its longing and joy. Once the sun sets, and the skies slowly darken, golden hues and sunsets on fire fading away to the darkness of the night, Harry and Louis find flickers of truth between them, veils parting, glimpses of freedom. Louis loves the night, maybe because this is when they can be them again. Kisses and cuddles and boundless unrestrained laughter. Whispered promises. The moon knows things the sun never will. With the glow of the moonlight, they are free – when the city falls asleep, when management lays its fearsome monsters to bed for the night. There’s no cameras and no questions. No interviews, no masks. No lies.

Time has changed them. Louis once swore he’d never get tattoos and certainly not matching ones, but he thinks it’s the fucking bipolar madness in love that has caused this, the reason why his body is slowly becoming an open diary, their story splattered bit by bit in green ink. Louis thinks it might be all the things they dare not say to each other, all the things that get caught in their throats when they try and speak about it.

He’s never been a fan of tattoos, but for Harry, for Harry, because of Harry, tattoos are becoming an addiction. Maybe it’s because Harry has slowly but surely become his addiction, his madness, his ophelia. 

“Do you think of me when she fucks you, then?” Harry asks casually, and on the surface his tone is measured, but Louis feels his heart crumble and hopes it doesn’t show on his face. It’s the night before the new tour and it’s just them, alone in a rented cottage on the hill overlooking the ocean, the roar and growl of the tides thrashing against the ragged rocks, matching the sudden violence brewing in Harry’s eyes. Louis feels himself shrink. Harry’s choice of wording is like a knife in his clenching gut and it’s because Harry knows. Harry knows Louis doesn’t fuck her and doesn’t hold her hand by choice. He knows Louis can make a Grease play look more believable than that bullshit charade with Eleanor Calder, that he can show Danny and Sandy’s love as something real and tangible, and the audience will buy it, but the audience will never buy the one act he’s desperately trying to sell, and Harry relishes in knowing this. It always comes back to this. The night, guarded by the darkness, blanketed by a sense of safety and security where nobody watches and it’s finally just them, tangled together with all built up frustration of endless days of pretending, endless bullshit, the sea of perpetual lies dragging them down like an anchor. By daylight, they resume their roles. It’s only through the light of the moon that the carefully designed masks slip away.

And so this is where they go to hide. It’s their hiding place, their secret place where nobody knows. Just a cottage on a hill, pale blue paint on the rotting wood fading, garden muddy, weeds overgrowing. The rustic old key sits in Louis’ pocket like a million dollar lottery win because this is their lottery. Freedom is the one thing all the money they have can’t buy. The place is slightly dilapidated but it’s charming and Louis’ heart tingles with wonder and excitement every time they stumble back into their hideout, rusted key slipping through the key-hole, door creaking open, and the next thing he knows, the wind is slamming the door shut with a blunt snap behind them, howling winds echoing across the turbulent ocean in the distance. In a matter of seconds Louis is being pinned to a wall with Harry’s tongue in his mouth. It goes like that every time. They’re insatiable, intertwined by this curious addiction for one another, because they’ll never get enough. Louis thinks Harry might be his drug and wonders if it’s possible to be addicted to a person to the same extent as a drug – where everything is centred on getting that fix, and he won’t sleep, won’t eat, if he doesn’t get his next hit.

Darkened green orbs find his, nostrils flaring, and suddenly Harry’s striding towards him, and there’s a side to Harry that nobody but Louis knows, a side that’s dangerous, and only Louis knows how to awaken it. Only Louis knows how to push his buttons, make him mad, push him around, taunt him – because he’s begging for it. Harry never gets mad until you push him to the edge. Louis gets upset on a daily basis and doesn’t mind letting people know when he’s pissed off, but Harry, Harry keeps it inside, bottles it up, pretends it doesn’t affect him. Louis knows his weakness. Louis knows that there’s a line you shouldn’t cross, so he crosses it every time. He doesn’t know why he does it, why he riles Harry up this way, because still waters run deep, they do. Harry’s not an angry person, he’s calm and slightly jaded, so why…

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, you fucking slut,” Harry slurs, voice low and rough and primal. Louis feels the heat tighten in his navel, and he knows he shouldn’t enjoy messing with Harry this much, but he does. He thrives on it. Why? He doesn’t know why. He’s screwed up. A screwed up mess.

“Who are you calling a slut, Styles? You’re the one fucking around with everything that walks, behind…my…back.” Louis hisses, ramming his palms into Harry’s chest and shoving him back. Harry stumbles and hits the wall with a thud. Outside, the winds are picking up, howling and wailing, the gates metal chain outside clanking against the pole, loosening it, and soon the gate is thrashing back and forth.

“But we’re nothing but BULLSHIT, right, Lou? Bullshit, do you remember? So fuck you. I can see who I want. It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Like HELL it’s not my business!” Louis gasps, fire raging through him now, and he tries to ignore the heat in his veins, but his pulse is racing and he’s not aware of what he’s doing. It’s like someone else is pulling his strings. The anger is blinding him and possessing him and before he knows it, he’s shoving Harry against the wall he’s already pinned to, the oil painting of lone lighthouse in the midst of a stormy sea swaying behind Harry as Louis grabs his wrists and thrashes him against it, again and again, “You WERE mine. I loved you and you fucking THREW IT AWAY on that bitch, like it meant nothing, like there was never an ‘us’. Do you even fucking… you don’t even realise what I sacrificed. You treat me like I’m nothing-” he was snarling and clenching Harry’s shirt at the low V-neck cut opening, a sudden spitfire in Harry’s face, his expression annoyingly unreadable.

Harry is laughing hollowly. Louis grabs him by the shoulders, neck red and veins protruding, steering him away and back into the wall fiercely, the painting finally giving way and falling to the floor. Louis kicks it aside as it lands with a thud, hands tightening around Harry’s wrists, feeling the frantic flicker of Harry’s pulse pound beneath his thumb.

“You think it’s funny? You think fucking with me is funny? Every time you do it, every time the paps talk about you…whether it’s bending over for Nick fucking Grimshaw or you having it off with that whore Caroline Flack or Taylor fucking Swift who just… USED you, used you, took you in and spat you out and added you to her fucking heartbreak song collection-"

Harry is sky and wind. A mindless and vague Aquarian air. There’s literally no fire here in him. He’s all head in the clouds and Louis is bound to the earth, needing to bring Harry back to reality, back to earth. Harry just wants to build castles in the sky, live in the illusion. The thing is, though, even the air becomes violent, churning winds, hurricanes and cyclones with enough power to kill men and tear down the foundations of the earth. If Harry is sky and Louis is earth, Harry has the power to destroy Louis.

And the winds are rattling the windowpanes as Harry throws Louis off him and manhandles him, arm snaking around Louis’ waist, he turns him around so that the curve of his arse is against his crotch and drives him into the other wall, slams into Louis from behind.

“You want to talk broken hearts, Boobear?” Harry asks mockingly, and reaches out for Louis’ hands, pinning them to the wooden strips of wall in front of them, pressing down on Louis’ hands until they’re numb and white. Louis whimpers a little, heart twisting. Harry tightens his grip and tilts his head against Lou’s, pressing Louis’ head against the wall, side on. “You don’t think seeing you and Eleanor together breaks my heart? When she comes with us and I can’t dare be seen walking with you, oh no. When you stop for a photo and they take her away once the photos been taken, like… like that’s her only purpose? You think I enjoy sitting in the background and watching you live a lie? You think this is fun for me?” Harry asks in a voice so low and deep it ruins Louis who can only twist against Harry’s strong hold.

“Ha-Harry…” Louis whines, and he knows Harry’s name is always said differently coming out of his mouth, like a breathless sigh, but now, now he says his name like an unspoken plea.

“It’s you who refuses to acknowledge it. You’re the one always running away, Lou. Not me. I was NEVER yours. Don’t tell me I was. I loved you. I watched you from afar. And I waited for you, Lou. I’m still waiting for you. I’m always waiting, and you’re always running.”

“I-I’m not, I swear. I’m not running.”

“But all you do is lie to me, Lou. Tomorrow, it’s all over. Tomorrow…It starts again. Tomorrow you look straight at the cameras and pretend you’re with Eleanor.”

“Harry, it’s NOT my fault, please-” Louis protests, trying to twist around and push Harry off him but Harry’s stronger, barricading him in, hot breaths on his neck. Something shifts subtly. The hardened green marble eyes soften, a trace of concern looming in the depths. Harry’s grip loosens, and when he releases Louis’ hands, Louis realises he could move now, he could get away, he could escape. But he doesn’t. He remains pressed against the wall, heart screaming behind his ribcage, heart suffocating. Because he loves the pain, and it reminds him he’s alive, and if he can make Harry hate him – if he can get Harry to push him around and get mad at him, it proves to Louis, at least, that he matters enough to pay this amount of attention to.

“Why don’t you tell the cameras tomorrow that you’re with me? Why don’t you say it, Lou? What are you scared of? You ashamed of me? Is that it?” Harry whispers, fingers lightly tracing the patterns on Louis’ arms, long index finger following the infinity eight of his broken rope.

“N-No. I’m not ashamed of you, Harry. I’m not. I’m… I just…I can’t. You know what it’s like! You know the p-pressure they put on me, on us, I-"

“Except nobody told you to fuck your fake girlfriend, but that’s what goes on, isn’t it? That’s why you avoid me weeks after a quick fuck-"

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? FUCK. O-OFF!” Louis sobs through a broken scream, voice wobbling, real tears streaming from impossibly light blue eyes and it doesn’t make sense to see eyes that usually so happy look so sad, eyes usually crinkled at the corners, bright as soft blue skies. “I d-didn’t! I never! H-How can you accuse me, Harry, when it’s you… it’s always you…” Louis can’t say it. No, he doesn’t want to say it. Harry’s always overreacting about this Eleanor business and he knows Louis never fucked her, but he tears Louis apart, constantly. And they both know it’s really him who’s fucking around behind Louis’ back, not the other way round. Louis is the stupid one, the foolishly naive one who’s only fault is pretending it’s not happening.

It’s messy. It’s complicated. Louis acts a certain role and only when the sun sets does he acknowledge Harry as anything close to resembling a boyfriend, and even then, he knows… that’s all Harry ever wanted to hear – comfort and security in knowing that they belonged to each other. But Louis is afraid and he does try to run, and of course, it’s a wounded Harry he runs into. He drowns in his attempts to swim away, but it’s always Harry who’s dragging him to the surface and breathing the life back into his lifeless form. Every time he’s seen connected to someone else, Louis knows it’s his fault for not marking his territory and he knows this is how Harry punishes him. He’s wordlessly saying, ‘If you won’t tell the world I’m yours, then I won’t be yours. I’ll be everyone else’s until you grow a backbone.’

“When you cum inside her, does it take your every shred of willpower not to moan my name?” Harry wonders, arm tightening around Louis’ waist, his chest rising and falling rapidly now. Harry’s words and his voice have always been his best weapon, and it never fails to weaken Louis. “Is thinking about my tongue eating you out the only thing that makes you hard when you’re with her, Boo? Or do you wait until she’s asleep and get yourself off, thinking about the way you like it when I punish you, the way you like me to fuck you so deep you can feel it for days? Do you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out when you jizz all over your fist while she sleeps, totally fucking clueless?” Harry drawls in that rough slurred tone, every word darkened, sending Louis’ blood spiking, the shiver starting somewhere in his skull and swimming deliciously down his spine as Harry’s tongue edges out to lap at the shell of his ear before biting his earlobe.

Harry’s hips jerk slightly against Lou’s arse, barely, but enough for Louis to feel him. “I could punish you, Lou. I could make you beg for my forgiveness…”

Louis lets out an embarrassing whine and his jaw is aching against the wall as he gasps, unconsciously thrusting his backside against Harry whose hips are grinding against him purposefully, making him feel the hardness bulging in his black skinny jeans.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Dirty slut…” Harry comments, grabbing Lou’s jaw and turning him around to face him and lust is clouding every one of Lou’s senses. All he can see is the desire and anger and hurt caught in Harry’s jade coloured orbs, and his unique fragrance is hypnotising Louis, that raspberry and vanilla scent in his mop of curls, something smoky in his cologne, scent ebbing from the pores in his skin, caught along the fabric of his shirt. “I’ll remind you who you belong to, cockslut,” he purrs, still holding Lou’s jaw. Louis cheeks glow with a butterfly’s blush, like two wings spreading out across his face and he’s throbbing in his jeans, cock pulsating and weeping for Harry…for his mouth, his touch, his cock. Anything. His words. Louis knows he’s partial to Harry’s dirty talk – it would be enough to do him in, to ruin him and leave him gasping with cum dripping down his thighs, practically untouched. And the glint in Harry’s eyes forewarns Louis of what’s coming, pink lips quirking upwards into a smirk.

Tightening his grip on Louis’ jaw, Harry breaks the fragment of distance here and presses their lips together, sliding his tongue in as Louis’ jaw slackens, Harry’s hips thrusting against his, the wet heat of their tongues coiling together. Harry reaches for Louis’ backside, digging his fingers into the jean clad rump and pulls Lou against him harder, breaking apart with gasps, his mouth clamps down on Lou’s neck where the pulse throbs desperately, little whines continuing to flee Louis’ parted lips as Harry pivots Louis in his arms until he’s cradled there with his back still against the wall, Harry guiding his legs around his waist.

“I could fuck you against the wall, Lou. You’d love it, though, wouldn’t you? You’d love it too much,” Harry groans, cocks grinding together inside their tight jeans, pulsating painfully. “I…I can make you cum like this, with my voice, my words. Bet your cock is begging for it, Lou? Yeah… Bet you… can’t…wait…” Harry sighs, holding back a low moan of his own as their hips begin to thrust together harder and faster, searching for that friction, “…to have my cock pounding into you…so…you…f-feel it, for days…” he utters, smacking their lips together again, and Louis is pulling his shirt off, gyrating his hips against Harry’s and hissing into his mouth as their tongues thrust together. Growling, Harry attacks Lou’s neck again while ripping his shirt off, buttons flying everywhere, bare chests fused together now, heart pressed to heart, beating ruthlessly, furiously. Louis’ neck arches back as Harry’s lips spread over his neck, sucking the flesh and moaning into the wet skin, the suction sound of his lips sending shivers down Louis’ spine. Harry looks drunk, gaze disorientated.

“Fu-uuuck, H-H-Harry,” Louis pants, bulging cocks trapped in jeans, the friction both heaven and hell, hips frantic and rutting with that same insanity that keeps bringing them back here, every time. Harry is Louis’ ophelia, and the heat gushes through his gut and he knows he’s close as he reaches up and grabs Harry’s curls, tugging hard. Harry’s snarling, eyes rolling back as the low groan slips from parting lips, and hips staggering in synch. Louis trembles against Harry, feels the cum exploding, hot and fast behind his briefs and dripping down his thighs.

His heart is thundering and Harry is slumped against him, breathing heavily. Louis eyes the wet spot in his dark jeans at the crotch and wrecked as he is, the back of his neck sweaty and hairline damp, he sees that Harry is as ruined as he is, his cheeks flushed, a vacant expression on his face.

And this is what happens when tornadoes and volcanoes meet. Uncontrollable want. Madness. Delirium. Desire that can never be quenched, it just keeps growing, higher and higher. Green eyes are blazing at his and in seconds Louis is on the floor and Harry is tugging his trousers and briefs off, throwing them away. Louis closes his eyes, breath hitching, listening as Harry unclasps his belt and steps out his jeans and briefs with such haste as the fever spreads through him and the next thing Louis is aware of is the wet blade of Harry’s tongue probing him from behind. He tenses, hadn’t expected it, but there it is, the length of it lapping Louis and wriggling its way in. Louis gasps and reaches out for the rug in front of him, grabs it for dear life as Harry’s tongue thrusts in and out, fucking his tightening hole with it and Harry is getting him proper wet, his hole dripping with his saliva. Harry’s moaning now, and Lou’s cock is already throbbing again, propped up against his belly. The rushing tides outside seem to grow more violent with the glow of the moon, Luna’s full tonight, dragging her ocean with all the command she harbours. She rules the emotions of man, and the sea does her bidding, as does the eighty percent of water that’s inside Louis – belongs to the moon, so she knows his secrets, she knows how his heart belongs to Harry. The tides crash turbulently against the rocks, the roar of the waves matching the chaos of Louis’ pounding heart.

Louis’ knees are getting carpet burn and he can feel Harry rutting against the carpet as he eats Louis out and Louis prays he doesn’t cum like this on the floor, not again, not so fast. But Harry eases his tongue out and pulls Louis roughly to his feet, pushes him against the wall again and bites his swollen red lip as he gazes at him.

“Wait here,” the darkened raspy tone tells him. “I’m gonna get the flavoured lube. Wait here – don’t move.”

Louis’ jaw sags again, a soft moan escaping as Harry rushes away, leaves him against the wall panting and flushed and once again, desperate. But Harry’s taking his time and Louis can’t bear it, the heat coiling through him, the need, the need within him so wanton, hectic. His hand brushes his own chest, lowering, lower still, and he closes his eyes and groans as he grabs himself, needing to relieve some of the built up tension.

“Did I fucking say you could touch yourself, Tomlinson?” Harry asks and Louis snaps his hand back, looks at Harry holding the bottle of Raspberry Kiss lubricant. “You’ll pay for that later. Turn around,” he commands. Louis swallows thickly and complies.

“Spread your legs,” Harry demands, voice catching a little.

Louis moans against the wall as Harry nudges between his arse and uncaps the bottle, and the next thing Louis knows is the wet squishy liquid sliding down his hole, generous amounts coating him. Gripping Lou’s thighs, Harry sinks to his knees and kisses a butterfly trail over the flesh, around his backside and finally darts his tongue back in, lapping the rim teasingly.

Oh God, Louis thinks, heart practically thumping against the wall as Harry laps the raspberry lube hungrily, his tongue making sloshing and slurping sounds as he licks it all up before squashing his tongue into Louis and fucking him in and out, faster and faster, as deep as he can get, gripping his thighs until his fingernails are digging in, Louis whimpering and begging for more, his cock throbbing painfully. He could easily take hold of his cock already dripping with precum and jerk himself off until he cums with Harry’s tongue deep in his hole but he knows Harry will not allow it. All he can do is beg.

“H-Ha-Harry, please… pleeeease… I need…I need you, I need it…” he says in a choked tone, gasping as Harry slurps inside him one last time before ducking out.

“What do you need, Lou? Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” he whimpers as Harry rises to his feet and pushes Louis back into his earlier position against the wall, lifting his legs up to wrap around Harry’s waist.

“Yeah? You want my cock, baby?”

“Please.”

“Tell me who you belong to first,” comes the raw voice.

“Yours. I’m yours. God, I’m yours. I belong to you. Nobody but you.”

And without another word, Harry slams in, gripping Lou’s biceps as leverage, his cock curled against his belly and slowly leaking as Harry grinds into him and Harry’s wearing this concentration face, frowning, eyes unblinking and seeing nothing but Lou, staring straight into his soul, the flames burning high around them as the lube and salvia in his hole coat Harry’s dick, slamming in and out unrelentingly. The sound of skin slapping sweat laced skin sounds through the cottage creaking with the howls of the wind in the night, and once more, they are shrouded by the darkness, kept safe and sound by the moon and the stars who pocket their secret love, because that’s all they will ever be – a secret.

It hurts Harry – Louis knows. That’s why he gets like this, that’s why they fight, because it matters. You don’t fight for something that means nothing to you. Anger is better than indifference, Louis just wishes, deep in his aching heart, that the moon wasn’t the only one who saw, wishes that the sun knew, prays that the sunlight would melt away their ridiculous masks, revealing the truth. But he won’t throw the mask away, it’s his lifeline, and it allows him to hide from the one person he can’t run away from. 

Harry reaches for his dripping cock and starts pumping it and the sensation of Harry is everywhere – those eyes that hold such intensity, it’s enough to weaken his knees every time their eyes meet across the room. Harry’s scent, his perfume, the Raspberry Kiss sloshing his hole every time Harry pounds in and out, Harry’s warm hand on his cock, thumb swirling the slit – Louis squeezes his eyes shut and sobs painfully with Harry’s name on his lips, stomach tightening and toes curling, legs squeezed around Harry’s back. Louis’ arms curl around Harry’s neck, tightening and holding on like he’s the rope and without tugging hard, he’ll fall and drown, because Harry makes him strong. Harry’s smacking into him harder than before, mouth latching onto Lou’s neck again, hips stuttering as he staggers and jerks, falling apart with a violent shiver. Louis feels complete as Harry’s cum shoots inside, mixing with the spit and the lube, dribbling down Lou’s thighs. They’re both ruined, both screwed up messes, he realises. Harry slumps against Louis, panting and trying to get his breath back, and their skin is burning, pressed together. When Harry pulls out, Louis realises he’s actually crying, the bead of his tear falling down his face and onto his lips.

“You okay?” Louis questions, voice breathless.

Their eyes meet, Harry’s green orbs glassy and wet. He nods, all of his frustration seeming to die on the spot and suddenly he’s the tender boy that Louis fell in love with, throwing himself into Lou’s arms and crying against his neck.

They fall to the floor in the embrace, sticky and wet and crying, because Louis can’t look at Harry crying without dissolving into matching tears.

“I loved you first,” Louis whispers, cupping his face in his hands and dragging him closer. Harry’s eyes widen and something inside shatters, his eyelashes wet as he blinks slowly.

“P-Past tense, Lou?”

“I loved you first,” Louis repeats. “And I love you still.”

“Really?” Harry asks, that foolish and boyish grin bringing the dimples out on his face. Louis just rolls his eyes and smiles.

“Against my better judgement, perhaps…”

“I love you too, Lou. I’m sorry it can’t be easy for us. I wish… I just wish…you know, that things were…simpler.”

***

Tonight may be the last moment of truth they get for awhile. The cottage is their hideout. The ocean is their love. After cleaning up and dressing, they find themselves walking hand in hand along the shore. Louis looks sideways at Harry as they come to a stop, waves lapping at their ankles and Luna’s pouring her glowing presence over the blackened sea. Yes, the ocean is their love, because the ocean is free, and true love is free – liberated and equal. It’s so dark, but the moon shines so brightly, a giant pearl in the sky, her hazy Milky Way glittering behind her.

“Lay down with me, love?” Louis asks, tugging Harry’s hand, and this is what Louis loves about them, about Harry. They fall to the sand, clutching hands and lying side by side, staring up at the stars, comfortable silence encasing them, the oceans echoing roar a lullaby in Louis’ mind. There’s something about the ocean at night that makes you feel so small, so insignificant, lying beneath a sea of stars – Louis feels like an ant in comparison to the vastness of the ocean, and when he looks up at the stars, it just doesn’t compare – there’s an entire universe of infinity out there. They really are like ants who are part of so many other worlds. Louis wonders if their love, in the vastness of infinity, measures up at all, whether it means anything.

“Louis?” Harry asked after several moments of contemplative silence.

“Hmm?”

“It’s beautiful, yeah?”

Louis doesn’t need to ask.

“Yes. It is.”

“Makes you feel so small, doesn’t it?” he goes on, and Louis forgets to breathe.

“That’s what I was thinking. I was…I was thinking…do you think…what we have, Haz…what we are…’us’….in the space of all this…infinity… does it mean anything? Does it matter? Do we matter? The universe is so big, and we’re so…small, in comparison…” Louis says, voice trailing off.

Harry doesn’t answer right away, his thumb brushing patterns on the surface of Louis’ hand who feels his heart jump at the gentle touch. He turns his head in the sand and catches a glimpse of a dimpled smile.

“If the universe goes on for infinity, and it’s infinitively big, then we’re part of infinity. We must mean something. We’ll never be here again, yeah? But maybe the miracle is that… through all this…this madness, we found each other.”

Louis’ heart stammers, gazing at the way the stars are mirrored in his big emotive eyes and when he turns his eyes back to the starry heavens, he feels his soul tingle with the joy of what he’s witnessing, the golden blaze of its tail shooting past the huge expanse of the sky, the scorching heat of a dying star soaring past and Louis remembers that he’s supposed to make a wish, but he’s so happy, so amazed to be seeing a shooting star for what he realises as the first time ever that he forgets to make a wish.

“Gosh, so pretty… So that’s a shooting star?”

“You’ve never seen one before?” Harry asks.

“No…” comes a soft answer. “I’m gonna have to tweet about that! That’s pretty sick!”

“Well?! Did you make a wish?!”

“No! I forgot to! I was too excited!”

“You tosser! Be thankful I made the wish for us, then…” Harry smiles, moving closer and tugging Louis, pulling him to lay on top of him, legs curled together. Louis rests his head on Harry’s chest and listens to the roar of the ocean that drums alongside the beat of Harry’s heart, eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes, and he doesn’t ask what the wish is, because he knows.


End file.
